The Empty Plate at Ananda Bhavan

The night air was thick with the smell of stale biryani and diesel fumes as I pulled out of the hotel parking lot. My friend Priya waved from her bike, and I turned toward the highway, the dashboard clock blinking 1:15 AM. The plan for the next day was all set—a grand get-together at the lake, a picnic, and a bonfire. Priya was supposed to pick me up at 9, but now I just wanted to sleep.

I dropped Priya at her flat near the old water tank, and she gave me a mock salute, promising to bring extra packets of chips. I reversed and headed for the shortcut that would take me past the abandoned textile mill and onto the service road. It was a route I’d taken a hundred times, a way to avoid the traffic checkpoints on the main road. The streetlights were sparse here, and the mill’s hulking silhouette loomed against the moonless sky.

As I slowed for a pothole, I saw it—a small eatery on the left, its name in faded yellow paint: ‘Ananda Bhavan.’ I’d never noticed it before, though I’d passed this way often. The lights inside were warm and inviting, and a few men sat at plastic tables, eating. My stomach rumbled, but I ignored it. I had half a mind to stop for a cup of tea, but the hour was late, and I wanted to get home.

Just as I was about to accelerate, a man stepped out from the shadow of the mill and waved at me. He was tall, gaunt, wearing a white shirt that seemed too bright for the dim surroundings. He pointed toward the eatery, then gestured as if offering me something. I shook my head, but he insisted, stepping closer until I could see his face—sunken cheeks, hollow eyes, a smile that didn’t reach them. Something about him made me uneasy, but I rolled down the window a crack. ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ I said.

He leaned in, his breath cold against my ear. ‘You should eat something. You’ll need your strength.’

A chill ran through me. I didn’t know this man, and he didn’t know me. I pressed the window button, but it jammed. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, rusted locket, dangling it in front of me. ‘You dropped this,’ he said. But I hadn’t dropped anything. My own locket—a gift from my mother—was safely under my shirt. I’d checked it just that morning.

I managed to get the window up and sped off, my heart hammering. In the rearview mirror, I saw him standing in the middle of the road, the locket glinting, and then he was gone.

I tried to shake off the unease, but the image lingered. When I reached home, I checked my locket—still there. I told myself it was a drunken hallucination, a trick of the dark. I didn’t mention it to anyone.

The next day, I woke late, groggy. Priya called, but her voice was strange—hesitant. ‘I can’t make it today,’ she said. ‘I’m feeling unwell.’ I was disappointed, but I understood. I spent the day alone, trying to rest.

That evening, I had to run an errand to the pharmacy. The shortest route was the same service road. I hadn’t planned to pass by Ananda Bhavan, but there it was, the same warm glow, the same men seated at the tables. Only this time, I noticed something odd: the men were all wearing white shirts, identical to the stranger’s. And they were all facing the road, as if waiting for someone.

I slowed involuntarily. The man from last night was there, sitting at a table with an empty plate in front of him. He raised his hand and beckoned to me. His lips moved, and though I couldn’t hear, I could read the words: ‘You forgot something.’

My blood ran cold. I pressed the accelerator, but the engine sputtered. The car groaned, and I saw steam rising from the hood. I pulled over, a hundred meters past the eatery, and got out to inspect. The radiator was fine, the engine cool. When I looked back, the eatery was dark. The tables were empty. A sign hung crookedly: ‘Closed since 1998.’

Trembling, I got back in the car. The engine started immediately, and I drove away, not looking back. When I reached home, I found a small, rusted locket on the passenger seat. I hadn’t left it there. I picked it up, and it snapped open. Inside was a faded photograph—a young woman with a striking resemblance to Priya, but older, sadder. On the back, in handwritten ink: ‘For my daughter, on her 21st birthday.’

I called Priya to tell her, but she didn’t answer. Later, I learned that her grandmother had passed away that night, and Priya had gone to the village to mourn. The next day, I drove to Ananda Bhavan, now boarded up. An old man nearby told me it had been closed for over a decade, ever since the owner’s daughter died in a fire there. He said the owner, a man with sunken eyes, had left one night and never returned.

I sold my car the following week. I couldn’t stand the thought of driving past that spot again. But sometimes, on quiet nights, I see the locket in my drawer, and I swear the photograph changes—Priya’s face now looks like mine. And I hear a whisper, as if from far away: ‘You should eat something. You’ll need your strength.’ I don’t know what it means, but I’ve never gone back to that road again. And I never will.